


Critique

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: ArtPrize, Fluff, James makes the problem go away though, Mild Angst, Non-Consensual Kissing, art critic James, art student Q, gratuitous insertion of author's hometown, nothing explicit just in passing, rape mention, silly circumstances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8841073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Neither James nor Q are particularly happy. They're enjoying their holidays, but they're not having fun.
Until a string of chance meetings occur.





	

It was drizzling, the restaurant was packed, and James felt at home.

Well, he would’ve, if not for the looming sculptures and installations everywhere.

Truly, this was a critic’s nightmare. Or playground, depending on the critic. James was somewhere in the middle. Currently, he was taking a break; he’d spent the whole of yesterday wandering, noting interesting pieces, gathering cards, deciding who to vote for. Today was just for fun.

Not that yesterday hadn’t been fun, too; but he was getting tired of scrutinizing, tired of smiling and promising anxious artists he’d vote for them, tired of introducing himself and having to deal with the fallout of those who recognized his name. He just wanted to be one more lazy, wandering tourist.

He’d been recommended to try somewhere called Bobarino’s, a restaurant in a building ridiculously titled simply The B.O.B.; and later he was going to go sample their bourbon and live music at H.O.M.E., whatever that stood for. But it seemed that, even here, he was not safe from ArtPrize. Installations, sculptures, paintings, photos, prints… all sorts of art, some beautiful, some interesting, some merely… there. He always hesitated to call anything “bad” art, because even so-called masters had room for improvement. There were times, though…

He applied himself to his meal, which was not the best, nor the worst. He’d had better—but, then again, there was nothing _wrong_ with the food. He shouldn’t judge everything based on The Savoy.

A gaggle of people shuffled past his table, laughing and chattering. They were too loud. He hoped they would pass him by; but no such luck. They chose to huddle right next to his table, admiring a nice enough painting. He sighed heavily and got on with his meal.

There was one person in the group who was _not_ being too loud. He was closest. He also had a very professional-looking camera that he aimed very carefully, at a wonderful angle. James approved, vaguely; he was a critic, not an actual artist. He preferred the end result to the process.

He finished eating, communicated with a waiter, and pushed back his chair, twisting to stand—

There was a scuffle directly in front of him, a sharp yelp, and he suddenly had a lapful of photographer.

James blinked, the photographer squeaked, and everyone was laughing. Or, it certainly sounded like everyone. The photographer was on his feet quickly, though, tugging his jumper straight, blushing a fiery red, even as he turned to James and met his eyes long enough to mutter, “I apologise.” And then he hurried away, straight-backed and dignified. His friends didn’t even bother going after him.

James blinked again, looked around curiously at those waiting for his reaction, and shrugged. Then he stood and went to pay for his (passable) lunch. A silly coincidence, nothing more.

~~~\0/~~~

Q walked behind his fellow students. They were loud and he wasn’t friends with any of them, though they seemed to think _they_ were friends with _him_. Where they had gotten this notion, he had no idea.

Q asked permission before he took pictures of each piece, and collected cards from artists in his rucksack. One of the girls asked him if he was making a collection, with a very pretty smile; he answered that he was simply being polite, although there were some people he would definitely be voting for. He ignored the pretty smile. No matter how many times he told everyone that he was gay, all the other gay men kept well back, and all the women pushed to the front.

He asked a graffiti artist if he could take photos of her work. Charmed by his politeness, and possibly his accent, she said yes.

His group wandered into a place called The Big Old Building (Q didn’t like acronyms unless they were being used in a technological setting). The ground floor was taken up by three restaurants, one of which was called House Of Music and Entertainment. He wasn’t interested. He had no ear for music, nor the stomach for lunch. The first floor had a restaurant, Bobarino’s, and more art.

He was taking more photos when it happened.

Carey saw what Q was doing, and obviously took offense. Maybe he wanted Q to pay attention to the group. So he tried to take Q’s camera. Q jerked back, startled, tripped over his own traitorous feet, and fell on his arse. Only, the fall stopped short of the floor, and he found himself seated abruptly in the lap of a very attractive man.

He wasn’t proud of the squeak that escaped him. He wasn’t proud that, for a precarious split-second, he found himself lost in beautiful ice-blue eyes. He _was_ proud that he managed to stand without excessive touching, turn, say, “I apologise,” and escape. His cheeks were burning, and he began plotting a cold, slow demise for Carey.

Out in the cold drizzle, past the smokers, Q took a deep, steadying breath. No, it wouldn’t do to ruin his life just because Q had been embarrassed. That was hardly the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him; that award squarely belonged to—

No. He cut that thought off and began walking in the direction of the hotel. Money had been no issue; with their pooled resources, his group had been able to secure three two-bed rooms about a month in advance. Q had generously chipped in… and then gotten his own room, discreetly. There had been looks of dismay and chagrin when he’d casually mentioned this at the hotel, but no one had actually been angry. That was good.

He wove his way through the crowds dreamily, taking in the sights, sounds, smells. He hid his camera in his bag so it wouldn’t be hurt by the rain. He’ll upload the photos on to his laptop, retouch a few of them, then go ahead and start designing his next computer. He liked the peace, the solitude, of his own room; he didn’t have to hide or pretend anything. With three rambunctious nieces and one curious little nephew, it was almost impossible to find peace at home; and he still had to share his dorm room.

He found the hotel without incident. Just as he stepped into the lobby, his phone went off with the Majora’s Mask theme. So that would be Cathy, Carey’s twin sister.

“Hello, Cathy,” Q answered affably, drifting to a quiet corner of the lobby where he wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. “How’s your brother?”

“Inconsolable,” she replied, and she sounded like she meant it. “He’s pouting again. Where are you?”

“At the hotel. I’m tired, and my camera’s almost out of memory. I’ll meet you guys for dinner, yeah?”

“Okay.”

They agreed on a place, though not a time—Cathy promised to text him when they were ready—and Q went up to his room.

~~~\0/~~~

James stepped out of the lift and nearly ran into the young photographer, who scrambled back, his glasses slipping as he stared in what could only be dismay.

“Hello,” James said, frowning a little.

“Hello,” the photographer sighed, resigned for some reason. “Excuse me.” And he slipped past James, nipping inside the lift just in time.

James frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged and headed for his room.

When he was safely locked in, he sighed in relief, and went right to the desk where he’d set up his laptop. There, he set about checking his emails, writing up quick blurbs for his blog—and getting ready for his video call with his boss.

_Technically_ , James was self-employed. _Technically_ , his wages were lump sums from people wanting his eye and expertise, and a trickle of income from web traffic. But he also answered to a higher power; his foster-mother and mentor, whom he hated and loved in equal amounts. Not an unexpected feeling, considering she returned the sentiments. Everyone else was deathly afraid of her, and her name was spoken in whispers in the British art community.

He just called her M.

He made sure to look impeccable; though today had been leather jacket, faded t-shirt, and denim jeans, he knew M would expect, and demand, a suit and tie. This was, after all, a business call. So he undressed, laid out his clothes on the foot of the bed, put on his grey suit, and sat down, adjusting his laptop so the camera pointed directly at him. Everything must be perfect, even if he was already planning out the best ways to cock things up.

M accepted his call and her immediate words were, “How long are you staying in that wretched place?”

“Three more days,” James lied smoothly. He was actually planning on another week, though he’d probably have to make up some excuse to get out of coming home to England. To London. “And it’s not wretched. It’s quite interesting, actually. You’d enjoy it.”

Everyone knew M didn’t travel. As head of the largest, most well-respected art magazine in Europe, she claimed travel was the job of her underlings. But surely even she would enjoy being in the thick of this kind of thing.

M just leveled a steady glare at James. “Stop lying to me,” she ordered flatly. “You know I can see right through you.”

James smirked. “Ah, but what am I lying about?” he asked impishly, leaning back in his chair.

“When are you going to finish up there?” M retorted with a short, sharp sigh. “You’re needed for another seminar.”

James’ smirk vanished. “Find someone else to do it.”

“No. You’re the only one who’s well-versed enough in tapestry and needlework. And we might actually make money off of this one.”

“Alec knows some.”

“Alec isn’t an expert, and he’d just set something on fire. The seminar is in four days. Be back by then, or I’ll terminate your contract.”

And with that, M disconnected.

James slapped his laptop closed, scowling. Standing, he began to strip again, being careful to smooth out wrinkles before hanging each piece of his suit carefully in the closet. Then he fell onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow.

He hated seminars. Hated giving them, hated going to them, hated the very idea. But if M terminated his contract…

There was very little work for art critics. He was lucky, as everyone had always told him. His nickname among his peers at 6IM was “7”, because he loved numbers just as much as he loved art, but he wouldn’t be lucky if M fired him. Turned out by his own mentor? No one in the world would hire him. And if he wanted to continue living a luxurious life full of travel, good food, fine wine, and beautiful lovers, he had to keep this job.

He felt expectations and responsibilities weighing around his neck like chains attached to a rock. But he was used to the weight. Fine. He would do the seminar. But he would bring in Alec, and that would make it interesting instead of unbearable. People tended to like Alec, though few could say why. It was that grin, the one that was charming and dangerous in equal measures. James still hadn’t mastered it. Mostly because, when he grinned, it tended to be right before he said something nasty and cruel.

He didn’t grin much.

Instead of ordering dinner in, like he’d planned, he decided to go out again. Maybe he’d try a coney dog. Hadn’t had one of those in a while.

He stood, redressed, grabbed his wallet and keys, and sauntered out of the suite.

~~~\0/~~~

Q sighed in relief once he was safely inside the lift—“elevator” as these Americans insisted on calling it, god knows why—and descending. To think, out of all the people he’d run into…

Well… it was possible that, just this once, he would not end up with a third encounter. But he didn’t believe that. He was just too unlucky.

Although, he was a very handsome man, the blue-eyed stranger. And familiar… he’d had a London accent when he said “hello”, but surely they had never met in London. No, the most probable explanation was that Q was confusing him with someone else.

With this reassurance, Q exited the lift and trotted to the revolving door. He had a dinner date, and he was _not_ going to be late.

He wasn’t, though the restaurant was crowded and it was hard to hear over the noise. They made do, however, all ten of them. Mostly Q’s nine companions told him about the sights he had missed; he listened politely and promised to be a little more social the next day. But his camera _had_ been full, and he _did_ have an immense pile of cards that he needed to cut down. So perhaps he would stay up a little later dealing with that.

They all walked back to the hotel, because the busses were packed and they did _not_ come on this holiday to be squeezed and cramped. They were all thoroughly exhausted by the time they got there, though, and went to their rooms content.

Q was fishing his card out of his wallet when he heard cursing at the door to the next room over. He looked up, curious despite himself—it was really quite vivid, and some of it was not English—and saw the stranger patting his pockets and looking absolutely furious.

“Of all the fucking days--!” he snarled, then turned on his heel and brushed past Q to the lifts, grumbling. Q slowly drew out his card and entered his own room.

It wasn’t any of his business. But he was still tempted to run after the man and offer to break into the room for him. Q could do that, he had his tools for it. By the time he decided not to, he was sure the stranger was gone, probably down to the lobby.

Q suddenly remembered him.

James Bond, art critic.

Slowly, Q sat down on the bed. Oh, he knew all about James Bond. Once, he’d been part of a gallery, and Bond had shown up. Q had nervously watched from the sidelines, invisible in the crowd, as Bond had eyed Q’s photographs with a professional gaze, hands in his pockets, feet spread and solid. It was just a showing for students. They weren’t proper artists yet. And Bond—Bond could make or break a career.

And he’d been so interested in Q’s photos...

Q shivered and hugged himself. After that terrifying experience, he’d gone straight to Bond’s blog, where, yes, there had been a vague post about the showing, and one line mentioning in particular that a photographer called “Q. Boothroyd” was probably the best of the whole lot. Q had been so happy, he got drunk.

After that, he’d kept up with Bond, bookmarked his blog and signed up for the mailing list, subscribed to 6IM, scoured the internet for interviews. Maybe he’d fallen a little bit in love with him, with his cutting criticism and sweet praise, never too much of either, with language so obscure even Q had to use a dictionary. He had a fine mind. Q liked that in a man.

And now he was staying in the room next door.

And they’d had the Three Encounters.

Q did not believe in God, but he began to pray anyway.

~~~\0/~~~

The coney dogs had been marvelous, he’d gone to a bar and gotten pleasantly buzzed, and now—now he’d discovered that he hadn’t brought his keycard.

Either that or it was stolen. But who’d swipe a keycard? An imbecile, an amateur. James didn’t worry. Instead he let himself curse and mutter angrily all the way to the front desk, where he switched on his most charming smile and explained the situation. The receptionist, male though he was, was not at all immune, and soon James had a new keycard and was on his way up again.

He stepped out of the lift and heard raised voices.

“—Won’t even TALK to us! What is your _problem_ , Boothroyd?!” snarled one voice.

“Nothing,” snapped another, “I came here to appreciate the art, not gossip about the people who didn’t come with us!”

“It’s not gossip, it’s—it’s—“

James rounded the corner cautiously, and blinked.

What a curious scene. The photographer who’d fallen in his lap was leaning back on a door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, ankles crossed as well, glaring fiercely. Another man was standing before him—had blocked him in, by bracing his hands on the door to either side of the photographer. He looked quite angry and distraught. James tucked his thumbs in his pockets and began sauntering towards them—

The photographer noticed him, turned his head, looking surprised—quick as a snake, his antagonist grabbed his face with one hand, turned him back, and kissed him.

James saw red.

He didn’t, usually. He knew when he wasn’t needed. But this frail-looking boy was being assaulted and looked to be struggling, as the bastard wrapped his arms around the photographer, pinning him—

James somehow ripped the attacker away and interposed himself between the two younger men, back to the photographer. “I suggest you leave,” James told the attacker smoothly, with his most dangerous grin, “Before I do something you’ll regret.”

The attacker drew himself up, blushing furiously but looking determined. “You have no right—“

James took a step closer and grabbed the bastard’s collar, lifting him about an inch so they were eye-to-eye, and smiled pleasantly. “Neither do you,” he murmured, “And I’m fairly sure molesting someone is frowned upon even here. So go away.” He dropped the bastard and shoved him, and after a moment, he fled.

James sighed and turned to the photographer—but the door was already closing. James frowned, shrugged, and went back to his own room, which—was right next door. Interesting.

He sat down at his computer and got to work writing up another, more detailed report on what he had seen, yesterday and today. That would go in the magazine. He thought for a moment after he finished, then made a new post on his blog condemning the sins of forcing oneself on another. He rarely posted about anything other than art, and when he did, he always had legions of people demanding that he shut up and go back to staring at pretty pictures. Such was the lot of all people who dared to speak out against rape culture, and oppression of all kinds.

He’d barely moved on to open Facebook when someone commented.

_What do YOU know about rape culture? You’re a cis man who’s probably never had anyone lay their hands on you! Further more,_

James opened Facebook.

~~~\0/~~~

Q took a shower and curled up on his bed with his back to the door. It wasn’t the first time he’d been kissed without his permission, but it was the first time _Carey_ had done so. Being kissed by a man when he didn’t want it was just as unpleasant as when a woman did it.

So he curled up tighter and watched silly videogame play-throughs on youtube, thinking.

He hadn’t expected it, but he would’ve been able to make Carey let go, if not go back to his room entirely. There was no need for anyone to get involved. Least of all James-fucking-Bond.

Almost against his will, his hands found the keyboard of his laptop and typed in the address of Bond’s blog.

~~~\0/~~~

James was having a leisurely wank when someone knocked on his door.

Surprised, he pulled on his pants again, put on his robe from home, and crossed to the door. Peering through the peephole revealed none other than the photographer, his hair wild as if he had been running his hands through it, dressed in a pair of eye-searing blue plaid pyjamas. James winced. But… well, he was curious. So he opened the door.

“Yes?” he inquired, lounging in the doorway.

The photographer glared at him fiercely, a small housecat facing off against a leopard. “I read your blog,” he said stiffly.

James’ heart sank. “I mentioned no names,” he pointed out calmly.

“Yes, but—“ The photographer sighed sharply, running his hand through his hair again. It stuck up in unruly curls, and James wanted suddenly to pet them into a semblance of order. But he kept his hands to himself, and waited patiently.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the photographer said, voice flat, as he met James’ eyes again. “I could’ve handled him on my own.”

James eyed him for a moment. Then he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Q.”

He frowned ever so slightly. Q… that seemed to ring a bell… “Boothroyd? Have we met?”

“No, you…” Q blushed suddenly, a very pretty look on him. “You came to a gallery where my year was showing.”

“Oh, yes. The photographer who did amazing things with light and shadow,” he noted, and smiled as Q blushed harder, looking faintly confused. “I remember. It was an awful show. Some talent, but it was not well executed. Yours was… hmm. Professional.”

“Oh,” Q murmured, looking even more confused. “And that isn’t a good thing?”

James sighed. “Mr. Boothroyd, I have been walking all day since 5AM and my feet hurt. Would you care to come in?”

Q hesitated. James knew he would. He even expected him to say no. But then Q firmed his chin and nodded. So James stepped out of the way and let him in.

~~~\0/~~~

Q allowed himself to be waved to the one chair, taking a cursory glance around the room. Very few personal effects, closet actually in use, laptop on the desk… oh, what a beautiful laptop. Gorgeous. But he isn’t here to talk about computers; he’s here to talk about… about…

“Art first, or my timely intervention?” Bond asked with a charming smile as he seated himself on the edge of the bed. His robe had shifted, showing a V of tanned, toned chest. Q ignored it—barely.

“It wasn’t timely,” he retorted, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head whispering that it sure as hell was. “I could’ve handled him. If nothing else, I could’ve gotten free and run to Cathy.”

“Cathy?”

“His sister. She’s—seen a lot.” She was an art student, but her mother was abusive to her father, and she knew how to handle people who forced themselves on others. “You didn’t have to do anything.”

Bond looked thoughtful. “What is he saying right at this moment, do you think?” he asked.

Q blinked. “Ah… probably that we were talking and you told him to piss off. And then he’ll slander me and say I’m ignoring everyone.” Q shrugged, not at all upset. This didn’t seem to surprise Bond.

“They’re not your friends.”

“They are. I’m just not theirs. I know it’s strange, but they won’t see it.”

Bond hummed in thoughtfulness. Then he said, “Professional photography is all well and good, but it’s not _artistic_. Artists take chances; professionals stick to a set of rules, of their own devising or another’s. That’s why every child is an artist. They have no rules, they have no idea of what works and what doesn’t, so they do whatever they want. How old are you?”

“Twenty five.”

Bond blinked. “I thought you were eighteen.”

Q growled angrily. “Why does everyone always—no, never mind. I’m not a child. I follow rules.”

“Ah, but from what I saw, you bent them more often than followed.”

Q felt another blush come up, and cursed himself internally. “I… I may be my professor’s despair, but I still don’t break anything. Rules are there for a reason.”

“And the reason is to be broken,” Bond responded cheekily, with a smile that made Q feel warm all the way through. This was confusing, and thus made him blush harder. He looked down at his hands, fisted in his lap. Oh dear. He was falling for him. Which was ridiculous; he was supposed to be _angry_ , damn it! But flattery has always been Q’s weakness. He _knew_ this, he had safeguards, he _knew_ flattery was a tool, a weapon…

But when he glanced up a very little, he saw an unfamiliar look on Bond’s face. His eyes were dark, pupils expanded, and that smile was smaller and… well, suggestive.

“You’re adorable when you blush,” Bond murmured.

Oh no. No, no, no, _no_. Q stood suddenly, muttered a goodbye, and escaped before Bond could do more than stand. He reached his door, tried to open the door—right, keycard, it should be in his waistband. No, the other side. Christ, Q, get a _grip_. He found the card and stumbled into his room. After hooking the chain, he braced his hands and forehead against the door and just breathed.

Flirtations from a man he didn’t know. It _should_ make him feel warm and fuzzy; instead it just made him scared. He didn’t know Bond, and Bond knew _him_ still less. Why flirt if you hadn’t even known the person’s name for more than five minutes?

Of course, he could always go back… it’d been a very, very long time since he’d had sex. But what if that wasn’t what Bond wanted? Or what if he was into some kind of kinky shit that Q didn’t understand? He’d tried things like blindfolds and handcuffs, but he didn’t like them. He hated pain. Sex wasn’t supposed to be painful, was it? Why the fuck is he thinking about this? It’s not like he has a real chance…

Oh, but those eyes and that smile had said otherwise.

He could do it. Just walk right back over. Apologise for running away. Ask if he’s still interested. But that would mean giving in, and he had never given in to anything ever. He would not give in to this.

He went to bed.

~~~\0/~~~

James slept peacefully enough, though he had a dream that he was making love to someone with beautiful green eyes, a slim build, and riotous dark hair. It had been very soft, that hair. Softer than silk.

But that was just a dream. Just a dream.

James decided to go to the GRAM that day. He dressed in a suit because that’s just what you wear to museums, and stepped out of his room, tucking his wallet in his pocket. He’d get breakfast on the way; maybe try something sweet. He didn’t know any good cafés, though… ah, well. He’d sniff somewhere out.

“Hold the door!” a loud American voice called, just as James was stepping into the lift. He stuck out his arm and blocked the door, looking curiously at—

Oh no.

A group of seven people stampeded in, chattering loudly, shoving him to the back. They ranged from an old grandmother (in her seventies at least, and talking like she was half-deaf) to a young boy (about five, who moved immediately to the buttons and pressed all of them).

James stifled a groan and kept his eyes forward, hands deep in his pockets.

By the time they were at the lobby, he was on the verge of killing them all, just for some quiet. But the doors opened before he could snap, and he sighed in relief, and followed as the family spilled outwards. The oldest male, of about fifty, seemed to take exception to the sigh, and cast James an angry look. James ignored him, ambling towards the door.

The family followed.

James continued to ignore them, and when he was on the pavement, took a moment to choose which direction in which to walk. Well, he’d never gone very far that way… so he’d try it. He sauntered down the street, putting on his most bored and apathetic of expressions.

After a while, he realized the family was following him still. He frowned a little to himself, and, glancing around, nipped across the street, a beat before the light turned red. There. That got rid of them. Of course, they might not have been following him… Better safe than sorry, though.

It wasn’t that he feared them; it was that he was tired of people knowing who he was. And if they didn’t know, that was all to the good.

He found a nice little sweets shop, and bought some chocolates and fudge. Hideously unhealthy, and it made him feel sick to have such a heavy, intensely sugared breakfast, but the taste was an art all to itself. He went right back in and purchased more fudge, for his “friend” (really he just wanted to take some back to his room at the hotel). “It’s _delicious_ ,” he told the woman behind the counter earnestly, and received a blush and a giggle in return.

He’d seen most of ArtPrize by then. It saddened him; but there were other sights to see. So he went back to the hotel, put his fudge away, and, after some thought, caught a bus to the area of the museum.

It was quieter in the museum. James ghosted through the rooms, taking in the art, feeling at peace. The murmurs were still louder than they should’ve been, but that was alright. He paused to admire one of the exhibits, a fashion designer of some renown. Ever since his mother had taught him to embroider at the age of eight, he’d enjoyed needlework and fiber arts. Fashion was simply the application of the two, mixed with a healthy dose of—

“Bobby, no!”

James whipped around and caught the little boy before he could run right into the mannequin James was standing in front of. Not surprisingly, the boy shrieked and struggled; James let him go, spinning him to face the woman rushing towards them, presumably his mother. The boy immediately ducked behind James, still shrieking.

“Bobby, come here right now!” Mother snapped, lunging for Bobby, who actually screamed, turned, and grabbed the hem of one of the dresses on display.

James caught his wrists before the boy could even begin to yank the dress, and said very calmly and firmly, “Bobby, let go of that.”

Bobby let go.

James released the small form, turned, and got slapped for his troubles.

“How _dare_ you manhandle my son like that!” Mother spluttered, nearly stepping on James’ toes, trying to intimidate him. He just blinked down at her.

“Madame, where I come from, we don’t usually let children ruin an art display,” he told her.

“Where _you_ come from! You—“

Bobby suddenly latched himself to James’ leg and blew a raspberry at his mother. The woman grabbed the boy, yanked him off of James more forcefully than strictly necessary, and stomped away, muttering fiercely. James sighed and shook his head, then realized there were people staring at him. He looked back, surprise turning to irritation. But when he did nothing else spectacular, everyone went on their way again, whispering.

It was only then that James realized it had been the same mother and son from the hotel. Oh lord. With his luck, he’d definitely run into them again.

Then, walking towards him out of the crowd came the photographer, Q. James felt suddenly much more at ease; maybe because of his dreams, maybe because Q’s face was carefully blank. For whatever reason, James felt himself smiling.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Q replied.

A moment of silence. James felt moved to ask, “Has he left you alone?”

Q scowled quite suddenly. “No. I had to give them the slip after breakfast. Told Cathy I had a stomachache.” He hesitated, scowl slipping, and cleared his throat nervously.

James glanced at his watch, and smiled. “Would you like to go to lunch with me?”


End file.
